


Let a Smile Be Your Umbrella

by Midori_Aidoru



Series: Waltz of the Snowflakes [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blood, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Rimming, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 17:55:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4069246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midori_Aidoru/pseuds/Midori_Aidoru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rain clouds have to clear before the sun comes out. It just takes a little longer to happen in Gotham City.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Oswald is deeply pleased with himself. His bright idea of 'gentle persuasion' aimed at a few of the bars and businesses in the vicinity of the club seems to be paying off. 'Gentle persuasion' being a generous, if pushy, protection racket; he's not resorting to extortion just yet, he's too new and untested for that. Besides, he doesn't even need to, all four businesses he's visited today have taken him up on his offer, not happy with the way Maroni or the woefully incompetent GCPD are handling things in the area. Promoting a positive image is a good start, and there are plenty more targets to choose from. Don Falcone will no doubt be pleased with his initiative, and if at some point along the line he can use the situation to his own advantage, well that's just his business, isn't it? As his mother once told him, you have to speculate to accumulate.

Four is good enough for today though. Oswald likes the number 4. It's a rounded, comfy number; balanced and safe. He shuffles lightly onto the sidewalk outside his latest success and leans heavily on his umbrella, still a little stiff from Jim's remarkable show of athleticism this morning. The snow has stopped falling, and while it's still cold there's a change in the rapidly darkening air that indicates rain, and lots of it. Oswald's happy with that, and he smiles to himself at the prospect. An old umbrella boy's habits die hard, apparently.

As he makes his way slowly back to the warmth of what's fast becoming his new home, he's so distracted with his own glee and the triumphs of the day he doesn't notice the black sedan with tinted windows slowly creeping up behind him, doesn't notice the two hefty guys who get out with surprising stealth and it's only when he feels the curious pinprick in his neck that he reacts at all. Too slow though, as usual; not even enough time to reach for his blade. _Got to work on my reactions_ , he thinks to himself and his vision starts to dim and he loses all feeling in his limbs, allowing them to quickly and efficiently manhandle him into the back seat like he was nothing more than a rag doll.

He has one last, upsetting thought before losing consciousness.

_Where's my umbrella? Mother gave me that! Oh... She'll be so disappointed._

********

Despite showering and changing into clean clothes as soon as he’d arrived at the precinct, Jim can still smell Oswald on his skin and it’s driving him crazy. Listlessly, he stares at the mound of paperwork in front of him, idly playing with the pen in his hand, torn between rising waves of crushing guilt and vivid visual and auditory flashbacks of what transpired earlier that morning every time he closes his eyes. It's utter hell, and it's only when Lee taps him discreetly on the shoulder and leaves her warm hand there that he breaks out of it, just for a few moments.

“God, Jim? Did you stay here all night?”

Jim looks up at her with tired, glassy eyes. “Uh, yeah... I thought... Thought I was on to something with this case. Turns out it was a dead end,” he smiles tightly.

She huffs a inappropriate laugh at his turn of phrase, but concern and curiosity soon wash over her features. “So, what did you uncover, or you know, not?”

“Ah, they all worked for Maroni. That's pretty much all we know right now. And there's no evidence so far. It could be one of a thousand people holding a grudge. Just another four of the city’s casualties.”

Jim distinctly sighs, and Lee's hand tightens on his shoulder.

“You need to get some rest. Have you even eaten? I'm sure Captain Essen would give you at least a little time off; you've been working yourself into the ground lately. I know what you're like, Jim. You need to look after yourself.”

Jim fixes her gaze, trying to look authoritative at least. “It's fine, Lee. I know what I'm doing.”

Harvey decides it's the perfect time to roll up to his desk, coffee in one hand, some god-awful looking pastry in the other. “Wow... Jim you look like shit warmed over. That's the look of a man who's had one hell of a ride!”

Jim prays that he doesn't colour at the poor choice of words and bites out a grouchy “shut up” as best he can. Harvey just chuckles and slumps down in his chair.

Jim gets up, leads Lee away from his desk and Harvey's prying ears. “Look, I'm sorry. I should've been with you last night. It's just-”

“No need to apologise, Jim. I know your job. This is going to happen, a lot,” she laughs freely and Jim feels the tsunami of guilt and regret engulf him again. “I'd rather it be that than nothing at all. But as a Doctor, please try and get some sleep now and again. And food. Food is good,” she smiles, and Jim nods obediently.

“Now I have a job to do too, I want to check over those bodies again, see if we missed anything. I'll see you later.”

She glances around before she leans in and kisses him softly. Jim kisses her back, but all he can think about is Oswald.

********

It’s dark when Oswald awakens. His head throbs and his mouth is dry but otherwise he seems intact. He appears to be in some kind of pantry, and a cursory glance around confirms to him that he's in the back of Bamonte's. Damn it. All those theatrics, only to be dragged back here? _Inefficiency at its best_ , he thinks as he rises stiffly to his feet. He's half-expecting that some dimwit has left the door open as he tries it, but alas, it's firmly locked.

Checking his pockets, he finds his phone and knife gone, _of course_ , and curses his lack of vigilance. He's rolls his eyes to the empty room, more angry at himself than his current predicament. There's water on a shelf, and he eagerly finishes off an entire bottle before readying himself for the next step. Shouting.

He shuffles back up to the door, banging on it as hard as he can.

“Hello? _Hello?!_ I think there's been some kind of misunderstanding here! If I could just talk to Don Maroni, I'm sure we can clear things up.”

No response. Oswald huffs impatiently and tries again. “Hey, I know there's someone out there! Can we possibly discuss this like rational people? I don't appreciate being treated this way! Perhaps we can come to some kind of beneficial arrangement...? Don Falcone will be very displeased when he hears about this!”

Oswald hears laughter behind the door, and it makes his blood boil. There's footsteps, then the lock clicks and the door is shoved open, groaning on its rusty hinges.

“Fuck's sake, will you shut up? Maroni's not here, _yet_ , and Falcone won't give two shits about what happens to you anyway.”

Two porcine men come into the room, red-faced and surly and Oswald lets out a nervous laugh, palms up, submissive. “Please, I-I'm sure this can all be worked out in a reasonable manner. Just let me go and we can pretend this unfortunate incident never happened. I'll be more than happy to compensate you if you acquiesce.”

The two men look at each other for a few moments until one shrugs. “Sure, go ahead.” They both step away from the open door. Elated, surprised and more than a little relieved, Oswald takes a couple of steps forward, smiling just that bit too hard at his captors. He's almost out of the door when he clocks his mistake.

One grabs his arm, wrenching it halfway up his back to immobilise him, while the other pulls a fearsome looking syringe from his jacket, brimming with neon-yellow liquid. It's ineptly jammed in his neck, but it still does the job and Oswald drops like a stone. They drag him back to the corner of the room and leave him locked away in the dark.

********

Two remarkably uneventful days go by, and Jim settles a little. Time away from Oswald means more time to do his damn job, and less making terrible mistakes. He's decided he's putting to down to alcohol, anger, and frustration; all perfectly good reasons for him ending up in bed with a fast-track mobster. It was nothing more than that. Just a hiccup in his otherwise normal routine.

_Keep telling yourself that, Gordon. One day it might actually stick._

They've gleaned nothing more from the bodies, other than the fact that Ed recognised the knife was serrated and readily available, and used with heavy-handed and clumsy brute force. Oswald didn't technically lie when he said he didn't kill them, but Jim's not stupid. He knows he was involved, but other than the fact they beat him bloody, there's nothing to tie him to the crime that would hold up in court. Not that it would ever get that far anyway. This case goes on the back burner, like so many others.

Jim's scanning another case when Harvey gives him a swift kick under the desk. “Looks like your hot date's here, Jimbo.”

“Yeah, you're real funny.”

“I'm serious! I can hear her, she's asking for you!”

Jim lifts his head, swiveling around in his chair. _Oh no_ , this is exactly what he doesn't need right now. He gets up from his desk and traverses the walkway to greet his not-so-welcome guest who smiles brightly when she catches sight on him.

“Mrs Kapelput. How can I help?” he says with a tight smile.

“You are Gordon, correct? Please, call me Gertrud.” Her accent is thick, thick enough to think she over-emphasises it on purpose. He can clearly see now that Oswald has her eyes, and it takes a hefty amount of willpower not to look away.

“I am, yes,” he nods. “We've met.” She beams in acknowledgement. “What can I do for you?”

Gertrud waves a hand in the air. “Maybe nothing, but... My son, I know he's a busy man, and the people he works with are, shall we say, a little unrefined? I fear someone may have taken advantage of him.”

“What do you mean?” Jim frowns, nervous.

“It's just... ah, I'm sure I am worrying for nothing. I visited his club earlier, I do so love that place, so beautiful and stylish... but they say he's not there. They say they haven't seen him for two days now. That he went out on important business, and well... He's been so good at keeping in touch after the last time, long was he gone...” She tails off, her expression sad and distant, but Jim urges her to continue.

She lays a hand on his arm. “He tells me he trusts you. I don't trust policemen, always corrupt, but Oswald? He sees something in you, I'm sure he's not wrong.”

Jim almost snorts a laugh at that. “Did they say what kind of engagements he was attending to?” he angles, knowing they would lie to her, or sugar-coat it at least, but it's worth a try.

“The nice man, Gabriel, said he was visiting local business. Introducing himself. He likes to make a good impression, I'm sure you are aware of this.”

_Aren't I just_ , Jim reflects.

“I just have bad feelings. Mother's instinct. Do you think you could investigate? Put my mind to rest?”

Jim doesn't really feel good about this either, but he's not about to show it, especially not in front of Oswald's mother. And Harvey, apparently, who is hovering around in the background, a little too close for comfort. Jim ushers her back toward the exit.

“Leave it with me Mrs... Gertrud,” he corrects himself as they walk. “I'm sure this is nothing. Let me see what I can do.”

Gertrud stops and turns back to him, hope in her large eyes. “Thank you my dear. You are good soul. I can see why Oswald holds you so high as a friend.”

Jim gives her another rigid smile as she practically floats out of the station, and Harvey's upon him like a hungry dog.

“Wow, you sure know how to pick the pretty ones. Who the hell was that?”

“No one, forget it.”

Harvey pauses and Jim can see the cogs working until realisation dawns. “No way. Was that... Was that the little weasel's _mother_? Holy shit, did she just crawl out of a grave or somethin'? No wonder he's such a freak.”

Jim ignores him, brushing past and grabbing his coat.

“Hey, where you goin'?! Jim, come _on_!”

Jim holds up a finger. “An hour, that's all I need. Stay put, drink some coffee. Do some work, even.”

“Don't you need me to drive? It's raining!”

“I've got legs, Harv. Rain's not gonna kill me!” Jim shouts over his shoulder as he heads out.

********

Oswald comes round slowly, odd sensations coursing through his brain. His eyelids flutter and he can feel his eyelashes brush against something, and when he finally opens his eyes he finds he can't see at all. But then the bag on his head is suddenly wrenched off, and he winces at the change in brightness. He tries to move, but quickly realises his wrists and ankles are zip-tied to the uncomfortable chair he's sitting on. His tongue and fingers are numb, swirls of colour dart across his field of view; the drug in his system clearly still in effect. The only upside to this is that he can't feel the pain in his leg right now. Small mercies and such. His coat, suit jacket and vest are gone, and he shivers a little at the cold that’s seeping through his sodden, grubby white shirt.

Strangely, he finds that if he holds his breath, his hearing gets much better, though his vision fades to barely anything. So he does. He listens carefully; heavy rain, quiet but familiar industrial clanking sounds. He can hear water too, sloshing against concrete in the distance. He surmises he's in a warehouse close to the docks. Makes sense, these idiots are so clichéd. Somehow he forgets to breathe out again and his whole world shrinks down to the desperate, rhythmic pounding heartbeat in his head and throat. It startles him enough to let the air out of his lungs in a rush and suck it back in violently, coughing and groaning loudly as he does so.

“How you doin' there Penguin, hmm? You doin’ okay?” a familiar voice echoes though his skull and Oswald starts laughing hysterically. He can't stop the noise bubbling up from his chest because everything is suddenly fucking hilarious until he gets backhanded across the jaw, and even then the taste of blood in his mouth doesn't really do much to dampen his spirits.

A filthy hand clasps around his mouth, forcing his head up and back, and Oswald reacts on instinct, wasting no time at all in sinking his teeth into the fleshy palm of his assailant. There's a yelp of pain, a punch to the face, and Oswald defiantly spits red.

“Jeez, how much did you shoot him up with? Give him some more time. I want him to be sober for this,” the voice asserts, somewhere off to his left. Is it his left? Maybe it's the right. Maybe it's from everywhere. Who cares. He laughs again, a little more subdued this time and gets yet another slap for his trouble. Whatever happened to people's sense of humour?

He's aware of the movement though; a line of people file out of the space around him and he's left alone with his fragmented thoughts, only the quiet drip-drip-drip from the rain through the broken roof of the warehouse to keep him company.

Oswald grins to himself like the devil.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: unpleasant torture ahead. Please proceed with caution.

Scouring the rain-slicked streets of Gotham is never Jim’s idea of fun, especially in this particular area, but he can’t ignore the ever-growing weight in the pit of his stomach. Pulling his collar up against the rain, he debates as to whether Oswald’s a complete fool or an incredible genius for encroaching on Maroni’s territory so soon, and right now Jim’s opting for the former. He's walking past a small florist, a few blocks away from Bamonte's restaurant when he spots something just inside the adjoining alley. It sticks out among the trash and dead flowers, and Jim scrabbles around in the detritus to retrieve it.

It's an umbrella. More to the point, it's Oswald's umbrella. His initials, _O. C. C._ , are beautifully inscribed in cursive on a small metal plate around the handle. There is no way he'd leave it here on purpose. Something must have happened, something bad. Aware of Oswald's current _modus operandi_ , Jim enters the florist, umbrella firmly in hand. A young girl greets him at the counter.

“Girlfriend trouble?” she says knowingly, as though it's a perfectly reasonable question that she asks every customer.

Jim realises he's frowning and tries to re-adjust his face. “Ah, no.”

“Boyfriend?” she fishes a little more eagerly, raising her eyebrows. Jim's face falls back into the frown. He reaches down and flashes the badge on his belt. “Detective Gordon, GCPD. I need to ask you some questions.”

“Oh! Sorry, sorry. Slow day, you know? What can I help you with?”

“Did a guy come by here in the past couple of days? Very distinctive. Short stature, black hair, old-fashioned suit. Had a limp?”

She replies immediately, “Yeah! I definitely remember him. Weird dude, had an umbrella too, just like that one.” She points to the one in Jim's hand. “Gramps took over and dealt with him, sent me out back while they talked. Didn't say what it was about. I didn't ask either. Less I know the better, he says.”

Jim pushes a little further. “Can you remember anything else? Anything unusual happen after he left?”

She ponders for a moment, then something lights up in her eyes. “Now that you mention it, a couple of minutes or so after he left, there was a bit of a commotion outside. I didn't see anything, I was packing a delivery, but there were sounds of car doors slamming and tires screeching. Probably nothing, but I noticed because it sounded really close. We're always a little jumpy around here.”

“Thanks, that's really helpful.” Jim gives her a quick, but genuine smile.

Curiosity get the better of her though, “Can I ask what this is about?”

Jim grins widely at that, tilting his head. “You can ask, but apparently the less you know the better.”

“Oooh, touché!” She laughs, “But yeah, you're probably right. Have a good day, Detective. If you ever need flowers, you know where to come.”

Jim nods to her, turning on his heels and exiting the store. As he walks, he pieces together everything he's gleaned so far, and there's only one obvious place he can go to get some answers. It's pretty clear that he was taken by Maroni's men, probably looking for a little payback. Despite appearances, Maroni is not dumb, and he's absolutely dangerous. This tit-for-tat bullshit only escalates, and Oswald is going to end up dead, sooner rather than later.

Twenty minutes walk later, he's staring into the window of Bamonte's. The lunchtime rush is long over, and it looks thankfully quiet inside. Jim rallies himself and storms in, trying to look a lot more confident than he feels. The main restaurant is empty, so he makes a beeline for the back. He thumps the double doors open and confronts two young kitchen hands who are prepping for the evening's service.

“Hey! You can't come in h-”

“GCPD. Where's your boss?” Jim barks, cutting him off.

The pair stare at each other for a few tense seconds, and Jim moves closer. He's not above a little intimidation when it counts.

“H-he's not here. He went out!”

“Where?” Jim's angry now. He's so close and it's making him impatient.

“Uh...”

“WHERE DID HE GO?!” Jim shouts, drawing his gun at the same time.

“Whoa! All right, all right! Shit man, calm down!” the taller of the two puts his knife down on the cutting board and stumbles back, hands in the air. The other looks like he's about to cry.

“Said.. S-said he had to stash something at one of his warehouses at the docks. Took something out of the pantry and left about an hour ago. Pretty much everyone went with him! I don't know anything more than that, I swear!”

“Some _thing_ , or some _one_?” Jim presses.

“I didn't see! They all went out the back way.”

Jim lowers his gun. It'll have to do. He smiles menacingly at the pair. “Thank you for your co-operation.”

He grabs his phone as he leaves and dials quickly, the umbrella in his other hand starting to feel like a dead weight. “Harvey, it's me. Come pick me up, outside Bamonte's. Yeah, right now. I'll explain later.”

********

He must have dozed off, because now he’s being unceremoniously shaken back into consciousness. This time, Oswald feels it; feels everything from the thumping headache to the sore stiffness in his restrained limbs. He takes a breath against a wave of nausea and glances up, cringing as what he sees.

Salvatore Maroni is standing in front of him looking profoundly delighted with the catch of the day. There’s a gaggle of others too, meat-headed spectators waiting for the show to begin. Oswald lifts his head and sneers.

“Ah, there we go, that’s more like it, huh? I do kinda miss that prissy little face you pull.”

“Release me. I’ve done nothing!” Oswald insists, but he’s so drained his voice sounds unintentionally alarmed, not what he was going for at all.

Maroni merely scowls. “Come on now, even you aren’t that stupid, surely? You know exactly what you’ve done, and the boys and I thought you deserved a little payback. You don’t get to take out four of my guys and not suffer the consequences.”

Oswald keeps mute and just shakes his head, disenchanted. He’s not going to fold like a three dollar suitcase in front of Maroni, or anyone else for that matter. This whole charade is a galling and pathetic waste of time, but Oswald comforts himself with his idea of hope; that one day, very soon, all of these men will be dead and Oswald will climb the pile of still warm corpses and crown himself king.

“Gino? Get over here.”

A taller man appears at Maroni's side and hands something to him. He looks vaguely familiar, but... not. Out of place somehow in this parade of ugly, bloated faces, he's slim and toned, swept back wavy brown hair and large grey eyes; in any other situation Oswald would consider him quite handsome. However, the look on his face and his overall demeanor are the antithesis of handsome right now, and Oswald averts his gaze. Maybe he reminds him a little of Jim. Maybe the drug hasn’t fully worn off yet.

“You, my friend, get the honour of keeping our special guest still.”

Gino saunters around behind Oswald, placing his hands on his shoulders and gripping painfully tight. He leans down and whispers bitterly, “enjoy the ride, _bird boy._ ”

“Here's the thing,” Maroni starts, pacing back and forth as he talks. “As much as I'd love to... _love_ to, I can't kill you. Not yet, anyways.” There's a murmur of laughter at that. “I respect Don Falcone's deal, I really do. But that doesn't mean I can't fuck you up just a little bit. Put you out of action for a while, you know?”

He steps closer, brandishing what Gino gave him in his hand; a pair of pliers. Oswald shies back against the chair, a lance of fear running through him that even he can’t keep at bay.

“So what should we remove, huh? Teeth? That would shut those loose lips up for a spell, wouldn't it? But... Hm, I don't wanna be rooting around in that dirty mouth of yours, do I? Might catch somethin'. No, no, I got it.” Maroni glances at Oswald's hands. “Four for four. Sound fair?”

“No, _don't!!_ ” Oswald is gripped by panic and tries to curl his fingers into fists against the arms of the chair, but the position his hands are in is all wrong. Maroni reaches down and forcibly extends the index finger of his left hand. “This little piggy's for Tony.”

Oswald struggles impotently in the chair, but he's held fast. “ _Please!_ Please don't, I'm begging you, I-I...”

The words die away as Maroni clamps the pliers to his nail and _twists_. He bites down on his lip at the sheer pain of it, eyes squeezed shut at the tears already forming, fighting the cry that tries to claw its way out of his throat. Maroni pulls and yanks hard, and the nail comes away from the bed with a sickening sound. Blood oozes from the torn flesh and Oswald exhales raggedly, dropping his head to his chest.

“Wasn't so bad, was it? I'll try to go slower.” Maroni grins. “This one here,” he grabs hold of Oswald's thumb, “this little piggy's for Angelo.”

It's so much worse this time. Maroni takes a great deal of pleasure in levering it off as slowly as he can, laughing in Oswald's face as he struggles not to shriek in anguish. He's enjoying this far too much, and Oswald attempts to distract himself by trying to think of all the possible ways he could kill him, make him suffer. White hot revenge has always focussed him before, but it's not really working though, not right now.

He's panting hard when Maroni drops the bloody nail on the floor, who's looking a little disappointed. He shoves the pliers under Oswald's chin, tilting his head back so he can look him in the eye.

“For a Penguin, you really don't squawk as much as I was expecting. Maybe we'll hear it with the next one, eh?”

Right hand now, index finger first. Oswald stiffens, cheeks wet with tears. “I'll be honest with you; I didn't care much for Vinny. He was a lazy ass, am I right fellas?” Chuckling ensues in the throng, and Maroni gives Oswald a smug look. “Yeah... You sorta did me a favour there. But still, while we're here...”

The pliers bite down and he tugs, one long protracted movement, and half the skin along the back of Oswald's finger comes off with the nail. He's too stunned to even move, even under the bile rising in his empty stomach. He sits motionless, open-mouthed, staring at his grisly finger.

“Would you look at that? Maybe Vinny wasn't such a bad apple after all?”

Oswald blinks out fresh tears and comes to his senses, working his jaw and drawing on what strength he has left to spit out a warning, as clear and as loud as he can muster.

“Don Maroni, you _will_ rue the day you did this to me. I will make sure you endure the most unimaginable suffering possible before you die at my hand!” he hisses, baring his teeth in a bloody, feral leer, almost goading him into doing his worst just so the revenge will be all the sweeter. But he doesn't yet know it's not going to be Maroni who deals the last blow.

“Whatever you say, _Pinguino,_ ” Maroni smirks, entirely unfazed by the threat, and backs off, beckoning the young man behind Oswald back around to the front.

“Are you done?” Oswald seethes in silence. “Good. Now then, last but not least. Gino here, he's not very happy with you either. You see you also managed to dispatch Pauly, his beloved, good-hearted brother. And lemme tell you, you made one hell of a mistake.” He hands over the pliers which are accepted gratefully.

Gino doesn't bother with any build-up, just rips hard and fast and Oswald howls, finally overtaken with the torment, unable to hold back any longer. The sound echoes off the walls and he collapses back into the chair in shock. Maroni just rolls his eyes, muttering a sarcastic _finally_ to himself.

Gino has just stepped back to admire his handiwork when a shout and several gunshots ring out on the other side of the warehouse partition. The guy who was standing guard by the door falls through it in an ungainly heap.

“Ah _shit_ , party's over, everybody out! Untie him and get him in the car.”

Oswald is cut loose from his bonds and whisked away faster than his burnt-out mind can process. He can only pray it's Jim; that Jim knows what's happened. That Jim can help.

_Please, for God's sake, let it be Jim._

********

For once, Jim appreciates Harvey's risky approach to road safety, and they get to the docks in record time. Jim's out the door and into the rainstorm before they've even pulled to a stop.

“Let's split up, we'll cover more ground.”

“Stupid idea, but I guess I don't have time to argue.”

“No, no you don't.” Jim barrels away, gun in hand, leaving a baffled Harvey behind.

He picks the first building he comes to, the door slightly ajar. It's some kind of old production line; abandoned equipment and trash litter the uneven floor, and the roof has collapsed in several places, letting the rain pour in and flood in huge puddles. The whole place smells of rot and damp and death, and Jim wrinkles his nose at it. He tries not to think of how many people Maroni may have dispatched here.

He's eagerly sweeping the isles of decayed iron, boots already sodden and uncomfortable, when he spots someone. There's a guy at the back, armed and half-turned in a broken doorway, attention fixed on something on the other side. Jim tries to navigate quietly but fails, tripping and colliding with a rusting piece of machinery and the guy turns in his general direction, gun drawn, startled. _Fuck_.

Ducking down, Jim breathes hard and tries to regain composure when a piercing, anguished scream reverberates through the dilapidated space. He knows that voice and his heart clenches in his chest at the sound. Not even thinking any more, Jim pops up from his hiding place and aims squarely.

“ _DON'T MOVE!_ ”

It's really not the ideal thing to say, but Jim doesn't have time to kick himself about it because the guy looks around and blindly squeezes the trigger, the shot ricocheting off metal and concrete. Jim takes the short seconds of opportunity to bring him down with a perfectly aimed shot, hitting him centre mass. He crumples like a cheap suit and falls through the gap.

Jim makes a run for it, jumps over the body, not even bothering to check it, and through the partition. There's a chair, knocked over about twenty feet away, and a closer inspection reveals cut zip-ties and a slew of fresh blood on the floor. _Damn it!_ He's too late. He sprints out of the building through the open loading doors and back onto the dockside, just as two cars take off at speed down the runway. He skids to a halt on wet, disintegrating tarmac, turns, and recklessly pursues.

“Jim! What the fuck, he's not worth it! You don't even know if that _was_ him!” Harvey has caught up, alerted by gun fire, and shouts behind him.

Jim slows, knowing the chase is useless, and re-holsters his gun as the cars disappear around a corner. “It was him. I know it was him.”

Harvey stops, leaning over and catching his breath. “Why do you even care? The guy's a waste of space! I'll give him this though; he's got a great knack for manipulating you and you're falling right into his pocket.”

Jim's hands twitch at his sides. He really, _really_ wants to smack Harvey in the mouth right now, but he reins it in, setting his jaw and breathing hard through his nose. “He's useful, you know that,” he all but growls.

Harvey balks, “Useful!? About as useful as a chocolate teapot. He's a deceitful, good-for-nothing little asshole, Jim. And if it _was_ him, he'll be floating dead in the river by nightfall, _which_ I might add, is where he should have been months ago! It's the only fate scumbags like him deserve.”

Jim’s not going to dignify that with any kind of response. He shoves his hand into his pockets, _just in case_ , and turns to face is partner.

“Drive me home,” he demands, the tone in his voice bordering on threatening.

“ _What?!_ Why?” Harvey narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Wait, wait. Your car isn’t at the station, is it? You wanna ditch me and go off looking on your own, is that it? Jesus, what the fuck is _wrong_ with you, man?! This is some top level insanity, Jim. Is he holding something over you, is that it? Does the White Knight have a secret? Huh?”

Jim shakes his head. “ _Christ_ , of course not! Harvey, please. Just drive me home,” he deflates, and Harvey actually feels a rare pang of sympathy penetrate his hardened shell. He rubs a hand across his forehead and sighs in disapproval.

“Okay, okay fine. But after all this is over you've got some serious explaining to do. Let's get out of this God-forsaken deluge, it's wreckin' my hat.”

********

The car is weaving its way through the rainy Midtown streets when Maroni turns in the front passenger seat and gestures at Oswald, who's shivering in the back. “Get him out of my sight.”

Gino leans over and grins at Oswald like a shark. He tucks his head down against Oswald's ear and hisses, “You know what, _bird boy_? Don Maroni might want to stick to the rules, but I sure as hell don't. You sliced my brother, so I slice you. Not like you'll be missed now, is it?”

Oswald's eyes widen and he gasps as he feels the biting sting of something being forcefully twisted into the small of his back, just as the car door swings open. He's shoved out of the still-moving vehicle and hits the ground hard, right on his shoulder and the side of his face, a sinister cracking noise accompanying his awkward fall. For a few precious seconds nothing registers as he stops rolling and comes to a halt. Tires squeal off in the distance, the sound muted behind the ringing in his ears and Oswald lays there, dazed on his back in the downpour, cold and bloodied and numb.

Numb is not good. Pain is good. He's used to pain, even revels in it sometimes. It reminds him he's still alive after everything he's been through, but this? This won't do at all. Several passers-by have gathered to gawp at him, and one even has the audacity to just step right over his prone body and continue on as though nothing unusual has happened. No one bothers to help him though. No one ever does. Not that it matters; Oswald Cobblepot needs no help.

Blinking icy rain out of his eyes, he tentatively tries to sit up, making the mistake of leaning weight on his left arm. Splintering agony radiates out from his shoulder and he collapses back again with a startled cry. Okay, so there’s the pain. He can work with that. He tries again, wrapping his left arm around his chest to support his shoulder and has more success this time, managing a sitting position. It's then he notices how warm his back is as opposed to the rest of him. His shirt is sticky, clinging to his skin in a way water doesn't. A broken sob escapes him when he remembers. There's already blood starting to pool around him, mingling with the rain and draining off into the road.

Several onlookers utter sounds of shock and disgust at the sight, and it somehow spurs him on; he has to get up and get somewhere safe, fast. A final rush of adrenaline has him on his feet, a small miracle considering the state of his fingers. With wet hair hanging in his eyes, he scans the area for landmarks to get his bearings. Dragging his mangled body away, the blood stains dissipate in the rain like the selfish, unhelpful bystanders he leaves behind. He knows where he is and he knows where he's going.

Whether he makes it or not is another matter entirely.

********

Harvey drives Jim back to his apartment building, and it's the most uncomfortable ride either of them has ever endured in their time as partners. They both stay grimly silent, Jim practically vibrating in his seat and while Harvey's default attitude is off-handed sarcasm, even he knows better than to provoke this peculiar beast. The worst thing about it is he fears he might have a handle on what's going on, but the very idea of it is patently absurd, even to him. Surely it can't be, can it? Gotham's shiny halo tarnished by _that_ fucking lowlife? That greedy, overreaching, anachronistic, two-faced, backstabbing son of a b-

“Pull over, we're here.”

“Jim-”

“Just leave it, okay? I'll talk to you later.”

They pull up to the curb and Jim jumps out of the car before Harvey can get another word in, slamming the door closed hard enough to emphasise his point as he stalks away. He sighs heavily, body and mind utterly exhausted but unable to switch off. Deep down he knows Harvey is right, that he _shouldn’t_ care, but it’s not that simple any more, not now, not after… He pushes down the feeling in his chest, tries not to let it get to him. Realistically, nothing about this situation can end well, but he's not going to give up. He can't. There’s no way he’ll be staying home tonight.

Jim stumbles into the blessedly empty, run-down foyer of his complex, heading straight for the elevator. His hand shakes a little as he presses the call button, and he's too tightly wound and lost in his own thoughts to notice anything amiss until the doors open with a bright ping.

There are spots and smears of blood and water on the floor and back wall of the elevator cab and despite his enervation Jim instantly goes into high alert, pivoting on his heels as the doors close behind him as if expecting some kind of ambush. The enclosed space around him stays quiet; only the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears keeps him company. With his right hand on his gun, he reaches out for the button to his floor with his left. There's blood on that too, drying but still tacky. He presses it gingerly and waits.

It seems like forever traversing the four floors, and Jim shrinks into a corner, gun drawn now, ready. Stopping with a jarring bump, it takes a few seconds for the doors to slide open again, revealing a seemingly deserted corridor. Stepping out, he sweeps left and right, scanning the space for movement. Nothing. The insistent buzz of the overhead fluorescent lighting it the only thing he notices. That, and the ominous sanguine trail that worryingly tracks in the same direction as his apartment.

Jim stealthily follows the trail, his stomach dropping with every step, absolutely no clue as to what could await him. As he reaches the turn he presses himself into the wall, palms sweating as he holds his gun up, and warily peers around. The blood is more profuse here, and there's _something_ , at the end of the corridor, propped up just outside his door; something suspiciously unmoving. Something black and white and...

_Oh God, no._

Jim breaks into a sprint, flagrantly disregarding every safety measure ingrained in him out of pure dread. He skids to a halt, blood squelching under his boots, and drops to his knees next to the supine body slumped against the door frame.

“Oswald? Shit, _Oswald!_ ” Jim yelps, hands hovering ineffectually over him, but there's no response. Under scrapes and bruises Oswald's skin is ashen and at first glance he looks like he may actually be dead. Jim takes a deep breath and checks for a pulse, trembling fingers pressing against his throat. It's there, thank God it's there, but it's too fast and too weak. It's quite clear he's lost a lot of blood; it's everywhere around them, but where's it coming from?

Hauling him carefully away from the door, Jim cradles Oswald's head in his lap and brushes his matted hair off his forehead, smoothing a hand repeated across his cheek. “Wake up, Oswald. You gotta wake up, okay? Hey, can you hear me? Os...? _Oswald!_ ” Jim's trying to keep his voice at a calm and acceptable level so as not to arouse suspicion, but he's having a hard time of it, and he's very close to shouting and shaking him when Oswald suddenly jolts, letting out a familiar strangled squeak.

“J-Jim?” Oswald cracks an eye open, almost immediately shutting it again and croaking with discomfort. He clutches awkwardly at his shoulder and that's when Jim sees the ragged wounds where his thumb and index finger nails have been torn out. _What the hell?_ A myriad of questions roll around in Jim's head but he focusses on the one that matters the most. “Listen to me, where are you bleeding?”

Oswald grits his teeth, voice barely a whisper, “My b... my back. Got a good s-shivving, I think. Wondered... w-when you'd come home,” he attempts a smile, but it comes out more of a distressed grimace. Jim forces his own smile, if only to keep Oswald calm. It does nothing for his own nerves. He needs to get a look at the wound, and quickly, so he can figure out what to do next. Oswald's hand shakily joins his own on his cheek, and Jim swallows.

“I need to see, okay? Brace yourself, gonna roll you over, just a bit.”

Oswald assents, sucking in a shaky breath as Jim moves him as gently as he can. Jim lifts the tattered remains of his shirt, trying his best not to jostle him. There, on the left side of the small of his back is a gaping stab wound. The size of it signifies that the blade was deliberately twisted to cause the maximum amount of damage. _Jesus_.

Jim pulls him back into his lap, trying to ignore the way he's wheezing; small tense breaths against obvious pain. _Think, think, think_. Hospital is out. Oswald’s vulnerable enough as it is, and whoever did this might just try and finish the job. He could take him to one of the many backstreet butchers, but Jim wouldn’t even wish that on a mortal enemy. Those places are abhorrent. He’s toys with the idea of taking him to Lee, but Oswald needs immediate medical attention and despite her skills, the station isn’t equipped for it. So that can only leave…

Jim pulls out his phone and crosses his fingers.

********

It took a little cajoling, but Crispus Allen set him up at the University Dissection Lab, the same place he got two slugs efficiently removed from himself. It was a little difficult trying to explain the situation, considering who he was asking the favour for, but Allen thankfully relented.

What was even more difficult was trying to get Oswald to his feet, effectively having to carry him to the elevator in the end and down to the basement parking garage without causing a scene. Jim had taken the shirt off his own back, tearing it into strips and tying it tightly around the wound before laying him out onto the back seat of his car and trying to drive as carefully as possible, an almost impossible task under the circumstances.

Jim's now sitting in a small office, staring into space, waiting for news. Hours seem to have passed, and he's had to switch off his phone due to it buzzing incessantly. He can't deal with Harvey right now. He can barely deal with himself.

Jim sighs deeply. He knows he should just go back to the station; go back to Lee, try and live some semblance of a normal life and forget... whatever this is. Oswald's gotten under his skin in a way no one else ever has, and he's seriously starting to doubt his own sanity. The runaway roller-coaster of emotions he's felt this past couple of months have squeezed him dry and left him a confused, frazzled mess, and maybe it _would_ be better if he just let go; let Oswald go completely. The reality is that they barely even know each other, and Jim simply cannot reconcile the differences between them, no matter how strongly he feels. To sever the jumbled threads that tie them together would be for the best, wouldn't it?

_Would it?_

No more time to think. The door to the office swings open and the Doctor comes in. She smiles as Jim gets to his feet, and relief floods through him.

“How is he?”

“He's stitched up, strapped up and stable. Lost quite a bit of blood. Got a fractured collarbone too, and if that stab wound had been on the right, it would've hit a kidney. The left one is always slightly higher. He's a lucky guy, Detective. Looks like he's been through a lot, and not just this time around... Although, who the hell rips someone's fingernails out?! They'll grow back, but the damage to the nail bed and root is severe, and permanent. They won't be pretty to look at.”

“Thank you,” Jim whispers. “Can I see him?”

“Sure. He's pretty doped up, but he was calling for you anyway. Don't worry.” she assures, “I'm not the type to pry.”

He doesn't remember the walk to the room where Oswald's recovering. He doesn't even notice the rats in their cages, oddly silent and subdued. All he sees is Oswald, propped up a little on his side, one arm in a sling across his chest, the other splayed out on the bed, fingers taped up, IV line in the back of his hand. He looks pallid and wrecked.

“Hey...” Jim mutters.

“Jim? Hi,” Oswald blinks slowly, a small smile curving his lips.

Jim keeps his distance. He knows if he moves any closer then his ill-conceived plan will crumble into dust.

“Y-you... You saved me. Again. How many times now?”

Jim swallow the lump forming in his throat. “Doesn't matter. I...” he coughs, gathering his resolve, “I contacted your big guy. He's coming to pick you up tomorrow. You'll be moved to a neutral place. You really shouldn't be here at all. I can't...”

Jim tails off, dropping his head and staring at the floor. He hears Oswald shifts on the bed, as though he's trying to get closer. “W-what are you saying? Jim?”

Jim blows out a long breath and raises his head, fixing Oswald's bewildered gaze. Now or never...

“I can't do this; us, whatever this is, I can't. It won't work. This... relationship? It's poisonous for both of us, you must realise that? I'm losing my mind here, and I can't do my job properly with clouded judgement. I'm not here to clean up after you and you alone. You're responsible for your own actions, you always have been, even if those actions eventually cost you your li-”

Jim stops, clamps a hand across his mouth at Oswald's dismayed gasp.

“I'm sorry, Oswald. I... I have to go.”

Jim shakes his head sadly and walks away. He doesn't look back, even as Oswald cries out for him. The click of the closing door sounds loud, and finite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear. I am a bad person. But it'll be okay, right? I'm sure I can fix it somehow...


	3. Chapter 3

“ _Jaaames..._ Jim? Wake up!”

A cool palm lands on his shoulder, tugging at him insistently, teasingly, just like the voice. Jim reaches up, links his fingers with a familiar hand. There's warm breath against the back of his neck and he smiles as he rolls over to greet his sleepy bedmate.

The space next to him is vacant.

Confusion hits him as he pulls back the covers but there's nothing there at all. He runs a hand over empty sheets, and in its wake a dark stain appears in the cold, early morning light. It spreads quickly, marring white cotton with deep red and Jim recoils in horror.

“Jim? _JIM?!_ ”

The voice takes on a panicked tone, morphing into a scream that rattles around inside his skull. Jim backs away too far, falls from the bed and hits the floor with a heavy thud _._

********

Jim wakes in a cold sweat, winded on the floor of his bedroom. Again. The fourth time in at least as many weeks, it's beginning to wear more than a little thin. His sits up, head in his hands and just breathes for a while, willing his heart to stop pounding. He winces as he pulls his hand away; there's blood on his fingers. Must've hit his head on the way down. _Great_.

Pulling himself up from the floor, Jim drags himself to the bathroom to inspect the damage. The mirror reveals just a graze, but it hardens his resolve; he made a mistake, a huge mistake. He's been trying to ignore his not-so-subtle unconscious for weeks, but this is the final straw. Being an idealist in a black-and-white world is all well and good, but Gotham's boundaries blur their lines into so many shades of grey he has no choice but to adapt if he's going to survive.

He showers quickly, washing off the blood and shame, his fingers itching to touch Oswald's scarred flesh so much that when he takes himself in hand he comes in less than a minute. He wantonly lets himself go, trying to relieve all the pent-up frustration of the past few months but it's not enough. It's never enough.

He pads back into his bedroom, toweling himself off when his eyes fall on the object propped up in the corner. He'd only retrieved it from the trunk of Harvey's car last week, and it's been taunting him ever since. He has to return it; it's his only way back in. A chance for forgiveness, for redemption. A chance to make up for his inelegance. Maybe, just maybe, he'll be absolved.

********

It's early evening when Jim gets to the club, and plenty of people are milling around getting ready for whatever tonight's festivities entail. Jim approaches the bar and quickly gets Gabe's attention.

“Where is he?” he wastes no time on pleasantries.

Gabe frowns. “He's... uh, Mr Gordon... Detective, really, he doesn't want to see you.”

“ _Where_ is he?”

Gabe sighs and relents at the dangerous look in Jim's eyes. “He's upstairs in his room. Honestly, though? You'll be lucky if he even speaks. Don't expect a warm welcome.”

“I'll take my chances, thanks,” Jim turns, curt, heading for the stairs. When he gets to Oswald's room, he finds the door closed. He steels himself and raps hard on the wood panelling.

There's a grunt of irritation behind it, followed by an annoyed, raspy voice. “How many times have I told you not to disturb me before eight? Could you come back later, please? I'm not even ready.”

“Oswald... It's me.”

Silence. Jim tries again. “Oswald, please. Let me in, just for a few minutes. I'm not going anywhere until you open this door.”

Jim waits, and eventually he hears the unwieldy sound of lock bolts sliding out of their housing. _That's new_ , Jim thinks to himself. The door opens just a crack and he's greeted with a glacial glower and a sigh.

“What do you want, Detective? I don't have time for this.”

Jim grips the object behind his back a little tighter. “I... I came to... I have something. Of yours. Thought I should return it.”

The hard edge of Oswald's glare softens, just for a moment, a spark of curiosity flashing in his eyes, especially when his gaze drifts to the cut on Jim's eyebrow. It dissipates just as quickly, although he pulls the door open, granting Jim access that he's still not sure he wants. He follows Oswald's retreating back into the room, pausing to shut the door.

Oswald wasn't lying when he said he wasn't ready. He's got his shirt on, buttoned up and tie in place, but it's untucked from his pants, suspenders hanging loosely at his thighs. He's also barefoot, which for some reason Jim finds particularly endearing. The humidity in the room suggests he's just gotten out of the bathroom. His hair is still a little damp at the back of his neck.

Oswald turns to face him, sharp-eyed and tight-lipped.

“I'm sure you have a good reason for being here, _James_ , but you have a minute at most before I call Gabriel up and have him drag you out. You understand the nature of this situation, correct?”

“I understand,” Jim replies. “It's just... When I was out looking for you, I found this.”

Jim produces the umbrella from behind his back and presents it to Oswald who stills completely, staring at it. He opens and closes his mouth a few times like an air-drowned fish before looking up at Jim, eyes bright and glistening.

“W-where did you find it?”

“In an alley, behind a florist. I cleaned it up for you. I should've returned it sooner, but-”

“No, no. It's... it's fine. It's... Jim, thank you.”

Oswald smile is genuine as he takes it from Jim's hand, and Jim can see his fingernails are growing back, albeit uneven and thick. The doctor wasn't wrong about that. They'll never be the same again. But then again nothing will now.

Something else Jim notices is that while Oswald's shirt cuffs are currently link-less, there's a small, embroidered umbrella on the inside of each one. It feels somehow appropriate. Oswald steps away for a moment, propping up the umbrella by the fireplace with care.

Jim guesses his minute is up, murmurs an excuse and turns to leave, unable to find a crack in this incredibly awkward situation, and as his fingers clutch at the door handle he hears it; a small, acute intake of breath. It's a sound that you'd expect words to follow, but no words come. A damp silence hangs in the air and it reminds Jim of the first time he was here, in this exact position; what happened after, the catalyst for everything.

He closes his eyes, makes his choice, and moves his hand to the top door bolt, sliding it closed. The middle and bottom ones follow and Jim turns back to see the tiniest of smiles deign Oswald's lips. Jim walks back into the room, stopping a couple of feet away from his companion and whispers quietly.

“Tell me to leave and I will.”

Oswald maintains eye contact and replies, “Door’s closed, silly. You’re not going anywhere, remember?”

Jim lets go of the air held in his lungs, reaches out and deftly unfastens the button of Oswald's cross tie, pulling it out from under his collar and discarding it to the side. The first few buttons of his shirt come undone next, Jim's knuckles barely brushing against the skin at the base of his throat and Oswald shudders; lips parted, eyes wide. The rest of the buttons follow suit, slowly and deliberately, and Jim is careful not to touch Oswald as he pulls his shirt open and eases it off his shoulders by the collar. There's still faint bruising around his collarbone, highlighting the scar of the deep cut he stitched up so many weeks ago, and Jim stares at it for a moment before looking back up.

“Take it off.” Jim instructs, and Oswald complies, removing his shirt completely and throwing it over the back of one of the chairs.

“Turn around.”

Oswald has his back to him in milliseconds. Jim takes a small step closer, inspecting the criss-cross of scars both old and new, particularly the livid red one at the small of his back, twisted into an 'S' shape as it's healed. He runs the tip of a finger over it, as lightly as possible, smiling at Oswald's sharp intake of breath.

“Does it still hurt?”

“S-sometimes, yes.” Oswald stutters.

“Hm.” Jim breathes as he gets down on his knees, just briefly, tilting his head a little and pressing a soft kiss to the spot, much to Oswald's shock. He climbs back to his feet and Oswald can feel his heat radiate against his bare back. So close...

“Lift your arms up.”

Oswald obeys, lifting up his arms stiffly and lacing his fingers together behind his head. As he does so, Jim reaches around, fingers playing with the top button of his pin-striped pants, still not quite touching, but Oswald can feel Jim's warm breath against the nape of his neck. The button comes undone, along with the rest, and Jim helps them slide down Oswald's slim hips until they pool around his bare feet. The only thing left are Oswald's dark purple silk boxers, a much tighter pair than the one's Jim encountered before, and Jim huffs out a laugh.

“You can take these off yourself,” he mutters, running his fingers teasingly along the waistband.

Oswald swallows hard, and Jim steps back at the sound, letting him peel them off to join his pants on the floor. Jim waits, just long enough for the silence to become uncomfortable before circling round and facing Oswald head on.

Oswald squirms under the appraising gaze and Jim watches the blush spread across the bridge of his nose and his cheeks, highlighting freckles and the tips of his ears, down his throat and across his shoulders.

“What are you doing?!” Oswald croaks, eyes suddenly fixed to the floor.

“Making it up to you.”

Jim can't hold back any longer, finally closing the gap and gathering Oswald's naked form to his own still-clothed body. Oswald instantly wraps his arms around Jim's back, fiercely clinging to him as Jim runs his hands up and down his spine, dips his head and exhales against his shoulder, the racing pulse in Oswald's neck against his cheek.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

Oswald doesn't speak, just leans out and clutches the back of Jim's head, pulling him down and kissing him, licking into his mouth like he's searching for something. A lie perhaps, confirmation that this is yet another cruel betrayal; like he could taste any insincerity present. But Jim knows he can't because there isn't any. This is real, and Jim's sober and it's all real and he can't help but kiss back with lip-bruising force. The whine in Oswald's throat washes out the remaining tension in Jim's body and he reaches down, grasps Oswald by the backs of his thighs and hauls his legs up around his waist.

“Hold on,” Jim grunts, and Oswald's grip tightens across his shoulders, moaning involuntary as his erection grinds against the cold buckle of Jim's belt. Jim walks them across the room, kissing Oswald quick and hard before dumping him down into the soft covers, rolling him over until he's flat on his front in the middle of the huge bed.

Oswald gets comfortable, arms under the pillow and his head and hears rustling behind him; the quick, efficient removal of clothes and Oswald grins against expensive cotton. The bed dips, Jim carefully easing his legs apart and settling between his thighs, palms running up and down the backs of them.

“You okay?”

“I'm not made of glass, Jim. You're not going to brea- _ahh!_ ”

There's no ceremony as Jim takes the meat of his buttocks in both hands, parting them and leaning down, licking a stripe _right there_. Oswald didn't think he could blush any harder but Jim's tongue is lapping at his little pink hole and Oswald would've jumped off the bed if Jim wasn't holding him down. It's scandalously filthy, and he doesn't know if he's going to die of embarrassment or arousal as Jim continues to lave his tongue and lips against him, practically eating him alive.

Oswald writhes underneath Jim, whining pathetically and attempting to grind himself down into the mattress for some semblance of relief but Jim's pinning him hard and he can only lay there and take it and take it and _oh fuck_ it feels so good. Jim moves slightly, licking up from the base of his balls, across his perineum and back across his now twitching hole, Oswald crying out as Jim slips the tip of a finger into him, followed by that talented tongue. Embarrassment well and truly gone, he starts actively pushing back in attempt to get more, and feels rather than hears Jim chuckle against his sensitive skin.

“You like that?” Jim pulls away and mutters, grazing his teeth against the flesh of his ass cheek.

“ _Oh God_ , Jim, please, I... don't stop!”

“I won't if you just stay still.”

Oswald does his best to stop squirming, and Jim presses his finger a little deeper into him, soothing the stretch and burn with his tongue. It stings in the best way, and Oswald muffles his cries into the pillow. Jim keeps it up until his jaw aches and he encounters too much resistance to continue without hurting Oswald. He removes both finger and tongue, much to Oswald's dismayed gasp, and proceeds to crawl up Oswald's trembling body, trailing hot kisses all the way up his spine and over his shoulder blades.

Jim uses his weight to press Oswald down into the mattress, deliberately sliding his own already wet cock between his cheeks as he whispers into Oswald's ear.

“Stuff still in the drawer?”

“Y-yes, God _Jim_ , hurry up!”

Jim just bites down against the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck, taking a moment to breathe in his cool, smoky scent and Oswald hisses a curse. Jim shifts, pulling open the draw with one hand, the other gently carding through Oswald's still-damp hair. He gets a grip on the lube, spreading it messily over his fingers, idly thinking that maybe one day, _one day_ he might be able to use some of the other... _toys_ in that drawer on Oswald. Or even the other way around. That thought makes Jim flush harder than he expected and he settles back between Oswald's spread thighs.

“Ready?” Jim smirks, lightly slapping a milky white cheek. He doesn't give Oswald the opportunity to answer as he slides two fingers into him up to the second knuckle. It's hot and tight and Jim has to pause and take a breath at the thought of getting inside there. He twists and drags and Oswald lets out a shaky moan, Jim soothing him with his free hand along his spine. Oswald arches and presses back, eager movements as he tries to get Jim to do that again. So he does. Repeatedly, stretching and dragging until Oswald is wrecked, babbling incoherently into soft sheets.

Jim withdraws his fingers, grasps the base of his cock firmly and spreads more lube up the shaft, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. He trails the tip back and forth across Oswald's loosened hole, just enough to tease. Oswald howls with frustration and Jim presses just the slick head in and holds it there for a few moments, forcing him wide open, before retreating and repeating the action. Just when Oswald thinks he may die of unfulfillment, Jim presses in and slides all the way, one long continuous motion that forces the air out of Oswald's lungs in a rush, body taught.

Oswald sucks him in, smooth muscle fluttering and molding around his cock like he belongs there. Jim takes another steadying deep breath, glancing down to where they are joined before leaning over and plastering himself against Oswald's sweat-damp back. Oswald is silent and still.

“Hey, Oswald... Os, _fuck_. Are you okay? I don't want to hurt you.” Jim kisses his neck, feeling Oswald's pulse race against his lips, strong and alive.

“N-no, it's... _hhn_ , it's fine, give me a second...” Oswald stirs, and Jim slips a hand under the pillow, lacing fingers together. He feels Oswald relax underneath him and Oswald turns his head on a sigh, seeking Jim's lips. The angle is awkward, but they make it work and Jim braces himself and starts to move. Oswald whimpers into Jim's mouth as he draws his hips back and snaps them forward. Jim pulls back, throwing a leg over the back of one of Oswald's thighs to get a better angle. One hand squeezing down on Oswald's hip, the other fisting the sheets by Oswald's side, he thrusts down again and again and _again_ , almost pulling out all the way each time, Oswald's desperate, fucked-out panting ringing in his ears.

Jim keeps it up for as long as he can, but he's not invincible, and the urge to see Oswald face to face becomes too strong. He pushes in hard, pressing his hip bones against the reddened flesh of Oswald's ass before pulling out completely. Before Oswald can complain, Jim's flipping him over, wrapping his good leg around his waist and letting the other dangle to the side. He slips back into tight, wet heat, Oswald reaching out for him, desperate, needy.

Jim leans forward, claiming Oswald's open mouth as he rails him. He loses all control, fucking his tongue into Oswald's mouth in time with pounding of his hips, both of them gasping breathlessly, Oswald's hands on him everywhere and nowhere, unable to get firm purchase. Oswald's neglected cock jumps between them, unable to get any friction the way Jim's positioned himself and Oswald reaches down, wrapping a palm around it, spreading plentiful precome over his twitching shaft.

“ _No_ ,” Jim all but growls, rearing up, grabbing and pinning Oswald's wrists either side of his head. “Look at me. Gonna watch you come like this. Just like _this_.” He grinds up into Oswald hard and deep; once, twice, stirring his hips, dragging the head of his swollen cock against Oswald's prostate.

“Oh, oh, _oh fuck_ , Jim, I... I'm... _Please_!”

Sobbing brokenly, Oswald squeezes his eyes shut and bares his teeth, body convulsing under Jim as he tenses up and comes untouched, stripes of semen marring the alabaster skin of his chest and stomach. Jim's breath catches in his chest, staring in awe at the sight. It's too much, it's way too much; the way he looks, body arched and _beautiful_ , the feel of him clenching around him, the strangled screams of their shared pleasure replacing the screams of pain that have haunted Jim's dreams. Jim comes so hard he nearly loses his sight, pulsing endlessly, filling Oswald to the brim, hot and thick and wet.

Jim stills as Oswald goes lax, boneless in the mess of bedsheets, ragged breaths the only sounds in the humid air surrounding them. Jim's muscles scream at him as he pulls his spent cock from Oswald's body, earning him a hiss from the smaller man, his release leaking out and onto the sheets.

He can't keep doing this, but then again, he knows he can't give it up either. This weird, no-man's-land they've entered is littered with mines and almost impossible to navigate. As he gathers Oswald up and pulls him close, exchanging lazy, exhausted kisses, Jim can't find it in him to care, realising that he will always do whatever it takes to keep Oswald safe. Maybe he can be a good influence; maybe he can change him. Maybe they can both change.

The sun shining in Gotham is rare, but when it happens there's always hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurrah! I'm finished. Got unfortunately distracted by real life, but finally I'm done. I hope you enjoy it!


End file.
